


Exodus

by murron



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apocalypse, Consequences, Gen, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-03
Updated: 2010-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-05 17:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murron/pseuds/murron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate coda to 4x22. What if Apocalypse <i>Now</i> wasn't just a pun and the world changed over night?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exodus

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilers up to 4x22.** No mention of season 5 events or characters.  
> Standard disclaimers apply

** _Dean_ **

 

The light forcing out of the split ground flung them against the chapel wall but even as they crashed into a rack of candles Dean didn't let go of Sam's jacket, his hand fisted in the lapel. Legs scrambling, Sam twisted around, grabbing Dean's shoulder.

"Dean," he croaked, eyes wide and scared.

Jaw clenched, Dean tried to pull them both off the floor, knowing all the while there was no way now to get to the doors in time. Feeling like a black hole had opened somewhere in the region of his stomach, he watched as the column of light fanned out above the pews and spread under the vaulted roof like wings unfolding. He was still staring when Castiel appeared in front of them, his face a bruised mess splattered with blood. Without even looking at the blaze behind his back, Castiel reached for both Sam and Dean, pressing fingertips against their foreheads. Relief knocked into Dean like a wave before he felt that familiar rush like someone had plunged a hook into his guts and pulled him off a rooftop. In the blink of an eye the chapel was gone, the light vanished, too, and Sam doubled over next to Dean, vomiting on the floor.

 

*

After Castiel dropped them off inside the walls of shed, Dean wondered whether it would become a theme, hiding from the heavenly host and the minion's of hell inside country barns. This recent one smelled of apple pulp, burlap sacks and mould. It was a rundown, remote place that had been out of commission for a good long while. Night limited the view from the barn's exit to the edge of an orchard and a crest of shrouded shapes in the distance that might have been mountains.

Dean stood in the open door, waiting for the earth to crack open and the fires to spread. Nothing happened, though. Instead it was quiet out, tattered clouds passing by the moon and the wind blowing steady through the trees. Before long, a brief shower swiped through the orchard, spattering rain on the dirt yard at the cider barn's exit. The smell of earth and old leaves came in strong, after. Dean felt the moist air creep inside his collar and down his back and shoulders.

In the back of the barn, Sam was still sleeping. He'd simply crashed on a row of crates, legs pulled close to his chest as if he tried to make himself as small as possible. Dean had found a moth-eaten blanket and spread it over him. For a time he'd watched his brother sleep like the dead, his own heartbeat speeding up in flashes. For while he almost considered catching some shut-eye himself. In the end, his dad's drills took over, however, and he got up to keep watch by the cider barn's door.

It had to be way past midnight, the moon still up high with a milky corona spreading on the black sky. Dean couldn't see any landmarks except for the apple trees, planted in rows. Judging from the barn's condition and the weeds sprouting in clumps under the door the place had not been used for a couple of seasons. A good hide-out, Dean decided. Castiel knew his game, you had to give him that. Not for the first time Dean suspected that he was saddled with the Dirty Harry version of an angel.

Not that it was a bad thing.

After he'd plucked them from St. Mary's, Castiel had disappeared without telling them where they were or when he would be back. Dean breathed through his worry, a practise he'd perfected by the time he'd turned ten. Looking back, that's what he remembered the most of his teenage years – breathing, waiting, looking out for Dad's car turning into the parking lot of yet another motel.

As he kept watch by the door now, Dean caught a glimpse of something pale moving in the shadow of the apple-trees. With another look back at Sam, Dean left the barn and walked over into to the orchard.

The trees were old and unkempt, moss climbing up the trunks and branches. Poles that held up the lower branches had cracked and fallen into disrepair. The leaf littered ground gave way with every step, wet grass and mud sinking under Dean's boots. Mist began to rise now that the rain had passed.

Castiel waited for him by one of the trees, his hand spread flat against the soaking bark. His face, turned up as if he were admiring the tree's crown, looked clean and unblemished once more.

"Did you go back to the chapel?" Dean asked, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. It felt like he should have used up all the words after screaming himself hoarse for Sam.

Slowly, Castiel turned to look at him. "Yes."

"And?"

The angel watched him with that same thoughtful slowness that used to drive Dean nuts. It always made him suspect Castiel weighed up what to tell Dean and which facts he'd better gloss over. In the end Castiel simply said, "It has begun."

Dean took it in stride. "What happens now?"

"I can't tell yet," Castiel admitted. "They never said how it would proceed, only told us there would be battle."

Dean snorted. "That's specific." He spared a glance for Castiel's coat which seemed to remain the same no matter how many scrapes the angel escaped. "How did you get rid of the archangel anyway?" Dean asked, honestly curious.

"I improvised," Castiel answered, tasting the word as though he liked it.

Tired of butting his head against Castiel's angelic obscurity, Dean gave up prodding for a straight answer. "So what, we do battle?" he demanded.

"I suppose."

"How?"

"I'll try to find out," Castiel promised in all seriousness.

Try as he might, Dean couldn't even imagine what on earth Castiel hoped to find and for the moment, Dean didn't care. His will to fight anything or anyone had been sapped bone dry. Pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket, Dean looked back at the barn and Castiel followed his gaze. "He's not your brother anymore", the angel informed him, making the words sound like an apology. "When he wakes you'll know."

"He'll always be my brother," Dean said quietly. I just forgot the truth of that for a while, he thought, bitterly. Forgot, renounced … it all amounted to the same. At the time it had hurt too damn much to be there for Sam without condition and now he was ashamed he didn't try. Never mind that Sam made it pretty clear he was not wanted.

"Dean," Castiel said, interrupting his thoughts. "I can't linger."

Dean bit the inside of his lip. He didn't like the idea of Cas leaving but he had expected nothing different. "Where will you go?" he asked.

"To find Anna," Castiel answered without hesitation.

Dean jerked up his brows, surprised. "What? Why?"

Castiel put on his best narrow-eyed doom and gloom face. "Because if we're to have any chance of surviving the next few days, we need her."

_Whatever that means_, Dean thought. Out loud he said, "What about us? What should we do?"

"Don't stay in one place too long," Castiel came back and seeing Dean's expression, shrugged. "It's the only advice I can give you for now."

Dean nodded. "Alright."

"Don't call for me," Castiel added with a frown. "Others might hear."

"You'll catch up with us soon as you've found Anna?" Dean asked, successfully keeping the panic from his voice. Letting Castiel go felt like unhanding the last lifeline Dean had left but then again he was used to balancing without safety nets.

Castiel met his gaze and held it. "I promise." A small line showed between his brows, suggesting either sorrow or determination. Castiel's face had always been hard to read.

"Hey, Cas," Dean began but broke off before he could say 'thank you'. The words just didn't sit right in his mouth. "Godspeed," he finished instead and could have sworn Castiel's mouth twitched a little. The next second Castiel was gone, leaving Dean alone in the dripping orchard, scraps of ground fog hovering between the trees.

 

 

_ **Sam** _

 

Sam slept without dreaming, a gift of grace which he considered undeserved. He woke up smoothly, too, just opened his eyes and looked around the barn without moving much. He remembered the barn from last night, vaguely. He knew Castiel had brought them here but beyond that he only recalled feeling dizzy and sick, crawling onto a crate and closing his eyes to the world. Now that he came to, he felt curiously rested, like he'd slept on a real bed instead of a wood plank. Pale light filtered through cracks in the barn wall and the sliding doors. Dean was nowhere in sight.

Sitting up, Sam pushed off the smelly tartan blanket that had covered him foot to chin. Walking felt strange at first because he it was so easy. Last night, every limb of his body had been sore and battered just as though he'd fought Lilith hand-to-hand instead of crushing the life out of her with his mind. Standing in the middle of the barn, Sam deliberately remembered those moments in the chapel, how his pulse had hammered strong on the side of his throat, how his own blood had rushed through his veins like water from a burst spillway. He remembered the aftershocks, too, the moment Ruby came clean and everything fell into place, adrenaline draining from his body and the floor vanishing under his feet. He'd been just Sam then, no power swelling his veins, just Sam, realizing all the ways he'd played into Ruby's hands and just what a fool he'd been. And now?

Sam turned the memories over in his head but he couldn't feel them. Couldn't feel the despair or the fear, couldn't even feel the guilt. He knew the extent of his failure but that was all he managed … knowing it. Something was obviously wrong and he waited for the panic to go off like a bush-fire, but nothing happened.

_I can feel it inside me. I've changed ... for good. And there's no going back now._ He recalled those words, too.

Taking a deep breath, Sam leaned back his head and ran both hands through his hair before walking out the doors in search for his brother. He didn't wonder whether Dean had left him behind. Sobered after the last days' blood high, he knew better.

 

*

 

He found Dean at the back of the barn, a couple metres down a dirt road, bent over the open hood of a pick-up truck. From the look of it no-one had touched it in years. The bug-spattered windshield was caked with road dust, dead flies littered the dashboard, and rust coated the fender.

"Hey," Sam said and Dean stopped what he was doing, straightened up a little so he could see Sam.

"Hey there, sleeping beauty," he quipped but he watched Sam with eyes too bleak for their usual banter. Five o'clock shadow all along his jaw and cheeks, dark shadows under his eyes, he looked a lot like he had in the days after Dad's funeral.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

Sam couldn't say if Dean expected an answer but he knew for sure he didn't want to give one. "That thing gonna run?" he sidetracked, offering a change of topic which Dean seemed only too glad to take.

"Eventually." Dean shrugged and turned back to the motor.

"Where's Cas?" Sam asked on, sidling closer.

"Gone to find Anna," came the muffled reply.

Well, that made as much sense as anything, Sam supposed. "What did he say?"

"That we should keep moving," Dean answered, leaning out of the hood. "Hand me that battery, will you?"

Looking down at the truck's front tire, Sam saw an oil smeared battery and a box with tools. "Where did you get these?" he asked bending down to pick up what Dean wanted.

"Pickers' cabin," Dean said, taking the battery from Sam and chucking his chin at the orchard beyond the barn. Looking back over his shoulder, Sam could just make out the roof of a house a stone-throw's distance behind the apple trees at the barn's back.

"I guess taking their car would have been too simple?" Sam ventured.

Dean shrugged. "If you wanted to ride out of this joint on a tractor," he said before adding, "Place was empty."

"So did Cas say where we're supposed to go?" Sam asked and held out a wrench before Dean could ask for it.

"Don't know," Dean said before taking the wrench from Sam's hand. "Have to find out where we are first."

They didn't speak after that, silence inflating like a balloon. Sam couldn't think of anything else to ask and he didn't really know how to keep this faux conversation going. There were other things he should say but none of them would be the least bit adequate. _Sorry I brought on the apocalypse. Sorry I almost killed you._ He had it right the first time. There was no turning back and in no way could any words undo what had happened between them, so Sam didn't try. That was the only thing he really did know: That talking wouldn't help. As for the rest … to keep moving sounded like a feasible option, all things considered.

With a satisfied grunt, Dean emerged from the hood and wiped his hands on his jeans.

"What about Bobby?" Sam asked not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Dean hesitated, worry etched clear as day on his face. "He doesn't answer his phone," he answered at length, tossing the wrench into the tool box and the box onto the back of the truck.

Sam felt his heart sink, but it was a distant sensation, like a stone slipping into a well.

"Better get going," Dean announced, rounding the car for the driver's seat without looking at Sam.

 

*

 

As it turned out, the orchard lay smack in the heart of Colorado, some 100 miles outside of Denver. Which was a long way from Maryland.

After he'd fixed and short wired the truck, Dean took them up to the interstate, putting Denver in their rearview mirror and going for the backroads out of habit. They kept the windows of the pick-up rolled down half-way to release the mildewy smell of the cab. Radio didn't look like it would work and Dean never even tried to turn it on. Sam stared out at the flat country rolling by, the snow capped mountains in the distance.

 

*

 

One hour in they passed a farmhouse and Dean pulled over, steering the pick-up down the driveway right up to the front lawn. No one came out the house to see who they were and when Dean knocked on the front door, no one opened. He peered into the windows before turning back to shake his head at Sam who waited in the car.

From the passenger seat Sam watched as Dean entered the house without even picking the lock – people rarely took the trouble to lock up their homes in these remote places.

As he waited, Sam first stared out at the house's garden before turning his gaze up to the rearview mirror. He could see his eyes, worn-out just like Dean's, with the iris all the right color and pupils of moderate size. They didn't change no matter how hard he looked. Sam sighed, dropping his head and rubbing the heel of his hand across his forehead.

Following up on a suspicion he'd had for the last hour or so, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his cell phone. He opened his mailbox to Dean's last message, hesitating before he pushed the dial to play it again. Without hell or heaven's interference, the message came through unscrambled, each of Dean's words sinking heavily onto Sam's shoulders.

_Sammy, I'm sorry._

Sam screwed his eyes shut, his hand clenched around the phone. He felt a sharp pain in his chest but before it could grow into anything more, Dean banged down the steps of the farm's porch, carrying a bulging plastic bag. Sam hid the cell phone back inside his jacket. His hands didn't shake or anything but it took him two attempts before he could talk to Dean. "Where is everyone?" he wanted to know.

"No idea," Dean said sliding onto the driver's seat, "but they can't be gone far. Fridge's full to the hilt. Or was." Sam took the bag and put it between his legs into the foot well. "No beer, though," Dean added, reaching for the wiring under the dashboard. "Friggin' puritans."

He got them back on the road and headed south. Once they were rolling, Dean popped a can of soda but neither of them really touched the food.

 

*

 

Driving along, Sam searched the roadside for other farms but even though a couple of tracks led off into the fields, the houses were too far off to be seen. They met no other cars, either. A couple more miles and a roadside produce stand appeared up ahead, handmade billboards advertising Cox apples and peaches. As the pick-up came closer, Sam noticed that the stall was untended.

"Pull over," he told Dean when they were almost alongside the stopping bay.

"What?" Dean asked, shooting him a surprised look.

"Pull over for a second," Sam repeated, not taking his eyes of the stall. Dean veered over onto the gravel shoulder and stopped. Without explaining, Sam got out of the car and walked up to the table with its neatly arranged crates and sacks.

"Sam," Dean called, jumping out the cabin after him. "What's going on?"

"We should have met someone by now," Sam muttered. When he reached the stall, he found all the crates full of fruit, peaches that had gone brown in the sun and a few red apples lined up on the table for samples. Walking around the table, Sam found a dog-leash, knotted to one leg of a chair. Sam scanned the field in the back and the gravel road that cut through it but there was not a soul in sight. Dean joined him, looking over the ruined peaches and the thermos flask that waited by the stall owner's chair.

"What the hell?" Dean said, frowning down at the deserted leash.

"Yeah," Sam said with a growing sense of foreboding. He also wondered why they had seen no crows making free with the abandoned fruit.

 

*

 

Sunset hovered when they reached the first town, the sky turning orange above the roofs and church's tower. October had come and gone and the nights came quick. Trees in the town had already lost most of their foliage and the yellow leaves were tumbling lazily across the tarmac. By the time they passed the town limits Sam already guessed what they would find.

Dean parked the pick-up on the main street before they got off the car, taking in the town around them without speaking.

The people, all 1.549 of them, were gone like they never existed. No passers-by on the sidewalks or inside the shops, and Sam had a notion the homes would be just as empty.

Sam dropped down on a bench, hands dangling between his knees. He didn't know how he could ever look away from the deserted sidewalks, the bicycles left outside the shops and the shadows lengthening along the ghost town roads. How could it have happened so fast? And what would they meet in the next town and the next one over?

Dean stood beside him and when Sam checked, his brother's face looked grey even in the warm glow of the setting sun.

"Come on," Dean said. "Let's find a place to stay the night." He seemed to weigh up his next move for a moment before he closed his hand around Sam's arm and Sam let himself be pulled off the bench.

 

*

 

They picked a house at random, dragging the bag of supplies into the living room. Sacking the farmhouse seemed stupid in hindsight because this kitchen offered food enough to feed a family of five. Going from the pictures on the mantle, it was just the number of people who usually lived here. Sam and Dean searched the house room for room but didn't find any clue about where the inhabitants had gone or how. In one of the upstairs bedrooms they came upon an aquarium lit by a lamp with fish feed floating on the water's surface. All that was missing were the fish.

"Dude," Dean said. "What the hell?"

Sam looked around the room, a teenager's den with too many posters on the wall, a skateboard by the bed and textbooks and magazines all over the place. Sensing the start of a headache, he reached for one of the magazines only to stare at the cover without seeing.

*

 

After they'd searched the house, they went off to raid the local hardware-sporting-goods-feed store. They came back just as the streetlamps switched on, putting four shotguns and ammo on the kitchen table along with two boxes of salt. Neither of them mentioned the insufficiency of their arsenal or the fact that there was absolutely nothing around to use it on. They scrounged together a makeshift dinner made up of bread, mayonnaise and cold ham. After some rummaging, Dean got his wish and found a six-pack in the back of the fridge. They shared even though Sam didn't want to drink his beer after swallowing the first sip. Everything he put into his mouth tasted like ash and dust and he wondered if the demon blood had burnt his tongue while he didn't pay attention. Wondered, too, if it would be a lasting side-effect.

Dean did the dishes right after dinner, another habit grown from a life that called for them to pack up and bolt whenever. Swirling the beer around in its can, Sam leaned close to the kitchen sink, waiting for Dean to finish before he would pick up the kitchen towel. He was about to force down the rest of his beer when he noticed Dean watching.

"What?" Sam asked.

"Nothing," Dean shrugged, turning back to the sink only to shoot Sam another sidelong glance. "I was just wondering if you felt any signs of …"

"…withdrawal?" Sam finished for him, lifting his head to meet Dean's eyes. Not because he wanted to make Dean uncomfortable but because he wanted to test if they could, still. Look at each other. Dean's shoulders tensed before he returned to the dishes so fluently it seemed almost casual. "Whatever," he said, pulling one clean plate from the suds.

"No," Sam answered, "I feel okay." It was the truth, too. Except for feeling a little queasy from the beer that to him tasted like the soap water Dean was stirring, Sam didn't notice anything off with his body. "Maybe the blood's so much a part of me now, my system doesn't need replenishment," Sam mused, more to explain it to himself than to Dean. Belatedly he thought to check for Dean's reaction, but his brother's face was averted in a way that prevented Sam from reading his expression.

For a moment then, Sam really felt like he should say more, like he should just spill his apologies no matter how little they would mean. But once again he didn't know how to start and he lacked the energy to put on a show. It would have been easier if he'd felt anything other than resignation.

 

*

 

After dinner they tried the TV, the phone and the computer in the den but nothing worked proper. They couldn't connect to the internet, the TV showed nothing but commercials and the radio kept playing the same five songs over and over. They set up for the night in the living room, stretching out on the couches because it felt too weird to use the family's bedrooms. Sam thought he wouldn't be able to sleep but he dropped off almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

"Sammy," he heard Dean ask just before he drifted off. "Where do you think they've all gone?"

Sam couldn't tell if he managed to answer but if he did, he might have said something like "glimpsing the B side".

 

*

 

Dean made eggs for them in the morning which was a surprise. Sam also woke later than he'd planned which told him that for once Dean had let him sleep in. Like the day before, the sun was shining strong; the tiled surfaces of the family kitchen sparkling in the autumn light.

Nursing a cup of coffee (tasteless but hot, at least), Sam watched from the kitchen table as Dean flipped the eggs and reached for the toast. From the way he moved, it seemed for all the world like he'd come to terms with their situation and made some satisfying decisions before turning into Martha Stewart. Sam knew the signs but he couldn't tell what was going on in Dean's head. Part of him also feared it was a show put on for his sake.

That might have been a very easy way for Dean to slip back into old patterns: reassure Sam with fake confidence. Sam had a feeling these patterns might survive even if their base trust in each other hadn't. It was familiar, the way they didn't verbalize things. Only in the past Sam had known all the words they didn't say were still there beneath the surface along with every bit of gratitude, all the fear and regret, even their unquestioned, don't-make-a-fuss brand of devotion. Now he wasn't sure if these things were still there or if their casual silence covered nothing at all. Nothing left to say. They were still connected, they still moved side by side because it was the only way they knew how to be. It might heal them in the long run. Or it might just be routine.

Watching Dean's back, Sam wished with all his heart he could rage against his doubts, pull over the car somehow and save what was left of them. He didn't have it in him, though. He was sad, yes, but this sadness didn't leave so much as a ripple in his poise. Maybe his change had taken away a lot more than his ability to taste stuff. In the end his thoughts all boiled down to something quite simple: It didn't matter. Things had changed and they wouldn't change back. Not after what Sam had seen in Dean's eyes after he'd punched him in the face for calling him a monster. And Sam knew just how much this paled before the possibility that every human soul had been blown off the face of the earth like so much dust.

 

*

 

Staying in town would have been pointless so they packed up and left, hitting the road before midday. They didn't discuss where to go; Dean seemed to know and Sam didn't ask. He slumped in the passenger seat, shoulder against the fly-specked window and breathing the rotten banana peel smell that wouldn't leave the truck's cab even if they torched it. Fifty miles later, he dozed off without noticing, conking out like he hadn't slept ten hours through the night.

 

*

 

The lack of movement woke him up and Sam opened his eyes to a parked car and an empty driver's seat. Disoriented, he straightened up and squinted through the windshield. What he saw there brought him up short, erasing all the fatigue he might have felt a second ago. With growing disbelief, Sam climbed out of the car and walked up to Dean who stood a short distance away, thumbs hooked in his belt. The wind blew into their backs, tugging at Sam's shirt and rustling through the dwarfed pine bushes around them. Just beyond their vantage point, the ground fell off vertical into a valley while up ahead, the Grand Canyon spread in all its splendor, curving rock formations taking on a soft orange hue in the deep blue dusk.

"Dude," Sam said. "Really?"

Dean shrugged. "Might as well."

They stood there for a while without talking, watching the hazy dusk spread in the gorges and the clouds turn purple until Dean said, "Come on," and led them to the old watch tower presiding over Desert View Point. They broke into the gift shop and came away with a bag of chips and chocolates. Settling down on the low wall around the tower, they distributed the sweets between them. Dean unwrapped his Snickers bar and chewed on it the way he always did, wearing an expression like nothing could ever be wrong in the world. Sam waited to start on his candy bar, toying with it and plucking at the wrapping. On and off he looked back at the canyon vista, the river winding like a ribbon through the gorge and the sheer endlessness of the evening sky. He could already see the moon, a translucent disk above the plateaus. By and by something in Sam's chest shifted, setting off a weird feeling he couldn't put a name to.

"To round things off," Dean said and lifted a bottle of Johnny Walker's from their replenished bag of supplies. Sam huffed but took the first drink readily enough. It burnt a little in the back of his throat, filling his mouth with the ghost of wood smoke and honey. When he lowered the bottle, Dean was looking straight at him and this time, he didn't turn away.

"We're really fucked this time," Sam blurted, shaking his head because all things considered the irony of how they got here still wasn't lost on him. Dean snorted, took the bottle from Sam and knocked it back, face towards the darkening Canyon.

"You know," Dean said as if he was picking up a conversation. "What we done wasn't so different. Back down in hell, if they had put you before me I would have ripped into you without question. At least you got into it for your family's sake. I just got off the rack to spare myself the pain."

"Dean…," Sam began but Dean cut him short.

"You want to assign blame?" he snapped. "Because I sure as hell don't. And we're not giving them the satisfaction. Who pushed the other first, and whose sacrifice set it all off in the first place." His hand closed around the edge of the wall, tendons showing and betraying a hint of the anger Dean must've felt. "It's them, Sammy," he went on. "Always has been. Moving us around like chess pieces. Most likely getting off on it, too."

Sam said nothing but he thought there was a glitch in Dean's logic. Demons, angels … they knew how to manipulate and maybe he was too harsh on himself thinking he should have seen through it but that still left the fact that he and Dean – and even their father - had made their own choices. Often in the face of better advice, too.

_It wasn't about saving you_, Sam thought. Not all of it. The main reason he turned to Ruby and continued to run with her after Dean's resurrection wasn't chivalry. Oh he used to tell everyone and himself that he wanted to be strong for his brother but really he looked for a way to protect his own battered heart. Deep down he just didn't want to go through the pain of losing people, of watching the time tick by and feeling so helpless it made his blood boil. And maybe … just maybe he'd been looking for a way out, too, trying to get his distance from Dean so the next time he would have to watch him die, it wouldn't feel like someone shot him in the stomach and left him lying to bleed out day after day after day.

Sam clenched his fists on his thighs, feeling the whiskey roil in his stomach and rise up his throat.

"Good thing is, though," Dean carried on while Sam had some trouble concentrating on his voice. "All that crap about our fate being decided in advance was just that. A load of crap. Cas proved it."

Sam took a deep breath and managed to focus enough so he noticed the satisfaction in Dean's words. "Shit, you should have seen Zach's face," Dean gloated, taking another swig of whiskey before passing the bottle to Sam. "Thought he had it all wrapped up; all his ducks in a row. He didn't see it coming, none of it. And you know what that means?" Sam had no idea but Dean answered his own question anyway. "We can change it, Sam, I know we can."

"Change what?" Sam asked, feeling more than a little skeptic. "The Apocalypse? I don't know if you've noticed but we've run short of a couple of humans on our way here."

"Yeah, maybe we can't stop it," Dean admitted, "but at least we can make it hard for those angel bitches to trample all over the people in their way."

"If we find anyone left alive," Sam remarked.

"Sure we will," Dean brushed off his doubt before adding, "All bets are off, little brother."

"And that's a good thing?" Sam wanted to know, shifting his seat on the wall.

"Sure it is," Dean insisted, turning to face him. "We took us out of their game. Now they have no more clue what will happen than we do."

Sam lifted a brow. "I repeat my question."

Dean smiled and for a moment he looked just like the devil-may-care hot-shot Sam grew up with. His determination was so damn infectious, Sam could almost see it: The grim joy of making a last stand by their own rules.

"We're off the maps now, Sammy," Dean said, white teeth shining in the gloom. "We can pick the road without anyone pulling our strings for once. Fight them where they least expect us. Throw them some screwballs. I don't know, wreck some balance or something. What do you say?"

"Sounds like hara-kiri talk to me," Sam replied but he had to smile, too.

"Hurrawhatsit?"

"Never mind."

Taking a good long drink form the whiskey bottle, Sam lifted his face into the cooling air. By now, the sun had almost set and the sky's blue twilight settled over the view point ridge. "So," Sam prompted.

"So," Dean said, jumping off the wall, "we better move our asses back to South Dakota."

"To check on Bobby?" Sam asked, getting up as well and screwing the whiskey bottle shut.

"Bobby can take care of himself," Dean growled. "I want to get my damn car."

As Dean bent to pick up the plastic bag, Sam followed, holding Dean back by the shoulder. Frowning, Dean looked up, searching Sam's face for what was wrong. Sam didn't waste words, just stepped in, grabbing both of his brother's shoulders and pressing his forehead against Dean's. Feeling Dean grow stiff in his grip, Sam clenched his jaw, determined not to let go. He might not feel relief or despair as was appropriate but that didn't mean he couldn't do this for Dean. He knew his brother, knew that despite everything – or because of it – Dean needed this. He would never say, but Sam knew. He'd done a crap job of being a little brother this year but that didn't mean he forgot how it was done.

As if to confirm Sam's intuition, Dean reached up, clutching Sam's collar in his fist. "S'alright, Sammy," he said softly before trying to step away. Sam would have none of it. Holding on with eyes closed, he waited until Dean stopped evading and leaned in instead, his hand moving to cup the nape of Sam's neck.

_Did you mean it?_ Sam suddenly wanted to ask. Did Dean really believe they could rely on each other enough to pick up the fight, or was it just a speech to keep them going? Why was it so hard to believe that they were anything but broken beyond repair?

Sam didn't know if the touch of Dean's palm started it but he began to shiver, his grip slipping until he had to clutch Dean's shirt to stop his hands from shaking. Dean whispered something but Sam didn't really hear it because his legs stopped working right about then and he actually swayed, would have fallen, too, if Dean hadn't been there.

By then he was crying, flashing back to the moment when Ruby had opened his eyes. From there he went on to relive all his missteps running back from that point, the decisions he'd made in the belief he was still in control. The consequences of his fallacies crashed down on him and this time he felt it, too, felt the whole weight of his shame and guilt flooding in like it had never been gone.

But there was also Dean, running his thumb along Sam's nape and holding him up like he had countless times before, ever since they were kids and Sam refused to sleep, fearing he would wake up and find the rest of his family vanished.

He calmed down eventually, his breathing evening out until Dean nodded and shoved him back with a gentle push to his shoulder. He turned to collect the plastic bag, giving Sam the privacy to wipe his face with his sleeve.

If Dean walked a little too close to him when they left the view point, Sam didn't mind. As they reached the car, Dean tossed Sam the keys, saying, "This time I sleep and you drive."

Sam snorted, took his place in the driver's seat and gripped the wheel, a little too hard maybe, but who would notice?

 

_**end**  
11/11/09_

**Beta by Auburn**


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